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Page 413
could not say he was sorry he had berated her. He was not sorry. What she had done, however wise, was against his principles, and to yield would make him less than himselfless than a man. Some instinct told him that if he could prod Alinor into a rage, into any strong emotion, he could break through the wall that held her prisoner. Ian took no special note of the name his thought had given to Alinor's condition, because he was too absorbed by his own turmoil of emotions, but the name was the most significant point in his whole thought.
In fact, every other part of Ian's conjectures about his wife was wrong. Alinor never minded being berated and cared not a pin for either his approval or his principles. She never expected him to say he was sorry he had disapproved of her; had he beaten her, she would not have expected him to apologize. Her plans had been successful. She was pleased, and she dismissed all extraneous matters from her mind beyond taking wry note of Ian's delicate sensibilities, so that she could use better care not to affront them the next time. Actually, Alinor was more horrified by her own behavior than her husband was. At least half her abstraction was owing to her self-castigation and her effort to break through the ridiculous resentment that held her natural emotions in bonds.
Alinor was not jealous in any ordinary sense of the word. She knew Ian was faithful to her with his body, and even with his heart, in an everyday, practical way. She had little doubt that he would always be faithful, excepting, of course, for the whores or serf girls he might use when they were separated. To deny him that comfort, by Alinor's way of thinking, would be the same as telling him not to urinate or move his bowels when he was away from home. Nor was she angry. There was nothing to be angry about, beyond the crude way he had left the house the morning of the melee. That was a little thing, resulting from surprise and absence

 
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